Tibetan Foothold (18 page)

After thirty minutes’ rest the agent rose to his feet and said succinctly – ‘Here we go up.’ And so we did. We went up every yard of that sheer, 3000-foot precipice – on which the Malanis have carved a stairway in the rock – and before we had got halfway the ache of my legs and lungs was torture; I almost wept with relief when we came to a ledge where there was space for all of us to collapse speechlessly for another rest. By now my clothes were saturated with sweat and I avidly ate the snow which lay within reach and rubbed its delicious hard coldness on my face and neck – to the wonder of my companions, who were still feeling chilly. Soon we set off again, pulling ourselves up and up and up. Then we saw our first Malanis – three young women, carrying loads as big as
themselves, who effortlessly overtook us and disappeared ahead. Their swift agility made me feel like something left out too long in the rain, as I fought for the breath and the energy to drag one foot in front of the other. (I realise that the descent tomorrow, when I intend to return to Jari, will be even more difficult, as it will involve constantly looking down at that unspeakable drop into the nullah.) At 4.15 p.m. we finally crawled over the edge of a little plateau astride the mountain-top and threw ourselves full length on the close-cropped grass.

Lying there, I remembered the tradition which says that the original Malanis fled to this spot from some unspecified enemy whom they reckoned would not pursue them to such a hide-out. And I decided that this tradition is historically sound, since no enemy could possibly harbour enough enmity to penetrate to Malana. I also reflected on the pleasing certainly that here were a place and a people who in ad 2063 would be recognisable to my ghost. The most ingenious engineer will never construct as much as a mule-track to Malana, which in fact is not a conventional valley, but a circle of fearsomely steep mountains, on whose upper slopes the Malanis live in unnatural defiance of the laws of gravity.

Having recovered my breath I rose, looked around me and realised that to stand here was an experience worth all the perils and exertions of the trek. To the south stretched the ravine through which we had come, with Jari framed in its narrow opening against a background of distant snow-peaks, now briefly fired by the setting sun. To east and west, close by our 9000-foot mountain, twins of about 11,000 feet were densely wooded to their rounded summits and on the upper slopes of each a few steady blue columns of smoke marked the spots where
deer-hunters
were camping for the night. And then, to the north, there was the profound, shadowed Valley of Refuge. Its semi-circular guard of 17,000-foot peaks, all shining in new snow against the blue-green sky, rose austerely from the smooth, wide loveliness of their glaciers – what a sight!

Now the temperature had dropped so sharply that I was shivering all over in my sweat-soaked clothes. The village of Malana was still invisible behind a forest of towering pines – it became dark as night
when we walked through them – and everywhere on this northern side of the mountain snow lay at least a foot deep. By 5 p.m. we had reached the outskirts of the village, having crossed a tricky little glacier, and I saw a collection of some 150 houses straggling up and down the slope. The majority are two- or three-storey dwellings, securely built of colossal stone slabs and great tree-trunks, and the combination of these elemental, unsubdued materials with a distinctive, compact design creates a curiously stark beauty. But it was the wooden balconies outside the first-floor rooms which really astonished me. The sureness and sensitivity of their carvings – as fine as anything Germany
produced
in the Golden Age of Reimenschneider – seems in this
superficially
uncouth and completely isolated community almost as puzzling as the language. And the physical appearance of the people increases the mystery, for they look like any other local peasants, though inbreeding has obviously dulled their intelligence.

I had known that as a non-Hindu I would be ‘untouchable’ to the Malanis (a very salutary experience for a European!), but I had not realised that this means being confined to the untouchables’ path, which skirts the ‘caste’ houses and of course the temple. However, Malana is so tiny that even from this path I could examine most of the buildings and observe that outwardly Jamlu’s treasure-house looks much the same as the family dwellings and is quite unlike the crudely elaborate temples seen in most Hindu villages. Yet in one respect it is quite unique: the only entrance to this tall, doorless building is through a hole in the roof. When the Malanis require money for any communal expense the
gur
– as they call their priest – climbs onto the roof, descends into the pitch-dark chamber and emerges with an armful of whatever comes to hand. Obviously the value of the treasure thus collected varies from visit to visit and the Malanis believe that Jamlu wishes them to spend no more on any particular project than the
gur
chances to find in his blind gropings.

Unlike the average Hindu god Jamlu is not represented by any image or idol, but by a slab of stone which lies in the centre of a small grassy plot at the edge of the village. This stone, measuring approximately three feet by two across and eighteen inches high, looks so exactly like
millions of other slabs scattered around the region that if I hadn’t known about it I would never have guessed its significance. On it animals are sacrificed to Jamlu in the course of religious ceremonies and no one but the
gur
is allowed to touch it. (Some people morbidly maintain that not only animals are sacrificed; certainly the population of Malana has been very successfully kept at six or seven hundred for thousands of years, though migration is unknown among these people. And the cultivatable land around the village could support no more than this number.)

It was nearly dark when my untouchable host came to guide me to his home on the far side of the village. Few people were visible as we skirted Malana, and of those few the women and children registered terror at my appearance and fled from sight, while the men, draped in splendidly coloured home-spun blankets, stood and stared unsmilingly. However, the good-humour and kindness of my host and his family are more than compensating for the general lack of cordiality.

This household consists of a young couple and their two children – a nine-year-old daughter and a two-year-old son. The girl is Malana School’s sole pupil, which seems logical enough; as untouchables these people have nothing to lose and possibly something to gain by disobeying the chief’s orders and allowing their children to receive some education. (Though when I met the teacher – a pleasant but inconceivably moronic youth from Kulu town – I realised that the child would be better occupied herding flocks instead of attending his lessons.) My hostess is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, both in features and expression, and as I watched her from my side of the fire – her face glowing against the darkness beyond – I was irresistibly reminded of the brave, sad innocence of Rembrandt’s ‘Titus’. Her husband is also exceptionally handsome, and both children have inherited their parents’ good looks.

Most Malani houses are stables and granaries as well as dwellings, and hay is stored on the side-balconies, where it protects the
living-rooms
from the bitter winds. But the untouchables’ house is merely a one-roomed cottage, for they have neither livestock nor grain. Their only possessions are two battered brass cooking-pots, an earthenware
mug, an axe, a bedding-roll and the garments they stand up in; this empty room makes a Tibetan tent look over-furnished. A stone fireplace about four feet in circumference lies in the middle of the mud floor, where an unintentional Yule-log some three yards long – the most spectacular I’m ever likely to enjoy! – is now burning merrily with the aid of handfuls of twigs. There is a twelve-inch opening, between the roof of stone slabs and the wall, through which the smoke escapes – and through which icy currents of air from the glaciers sweep in on the assembled company. Everyone squats around the fire while talking, cooking and eating. (Or, in the present case, writing. I’m
three-quarters
blind after these hours of writing by flickering firelight.)

A magnificent Himalayan sheepdog – now asleep with his head on my outstretched legs – should really have been listed as a member of the family. He’s the size of a small donkey, with a glossy, short-haired black coat, rather blunt nose, white chest and tan-coloured legs – a typical specimen, but even more affectionate than most of his breed. When he first appeared, soon after my arrival, I automatically made encouraging noises and before I knew what had hit me I’d been knocked flat on my back by this vast bundle of lovingness. Having romped ecstatically over me for at least ten minutes His Nibs then ate his supper of boiled potatoes and settled down to sleep. Most Indians treat dogs so abominably that it has done me good to find a normal human–canine relationship operating here.

Our supper consisted of chapattis, and potatoes sliced and simmered in ghee. There were plenty of the latter so I’m not complaining about my Christmas dinner – what more could a good Irishwoman ask than platefuls of Murphies! The Malanis do not normally use tea, sugar or any other non-local product – for very obvious reasons.

A slight crisis occurred while supper was being prepared. As my hostess was making the chapattis her husband began to peel potatoes clumsily with his axe (!), because the household possesses no knife, and after watching this process for a few moments I could stand the sight no longer – partly for the poor man’s sake and partly for my own, since I had eaten nothing all day. So I produced my own knife, having drawn it from its leather sheath. Suddenly everyone was motionless and in the
tense little silence that followed I became guiltily aware of my faux pas. Fortunately I knew enough about Malani customs to react correctly; making the appropriate gestures of remorse I at once produced Rs. 10 – the price of the lamb which must be sacrificed tomorrow to placate the insulted Jamlu. And though cynics may here accuse me of being too naïve, no one who had once sensed the Malani atmosphere could doubt the use to which those rupees will be put: this family couldn’t possibly consider going happily on with the daily round until their god has been propitiated for such an outrage on his territory.

After supper we had another slight crisis, when the election agent nobly tore himself away from his gambling to ensure that I was
comfortable
for the night. Admittedly the question of bedding did pose a minor problem; the family has none to spare and any blankets lent me from a ‘caste’ house would be so contaminated by my body that their owners could never use them again. Yet the solution seemed simple to me – a heap of hay in the corner – and the real complication was caused by my host’s indignation at the idea of his guest being bedded down like an animal. However, he was at last induced to agree to this scheme by my emphatic assurances that
all
Irish people habitually sleep in hay.

I’ve just been out for an essential short stroll before retiring and in the brilliant moonlight this soundless, snow-bright valley seems quite unearthly. I’m not psychic, yet for me Malana has, unexpectedly, a Presence – which is perhaps the natural result of its inhabitants’
5000-year-old
belief that here dwells Jamdagnishri. Undeniably it is an eerie place, lying cold and still and secretive in its high isolation and sending curious intruders away no wiser than when they came.

It’s unlike me to sleep badly, especially after a strenuous day; yet last night I woke up repeatedly, feeling alert and uneasy for no apparent reason. There really is something uncanny about Malana. I’m usually at my happiest in the most primitive places, but this morning I was quite glad to leave that village – in spite of the beauty of its surroundings and the friendliness of my host and his family.

Admittedly the mice – seemingly millions of them – contributed to my wakefulness, and eventually I composed a fatuous lullaby based on the assumption that my Tibetan-lousy head was attracting the creatures –

And finally I went to sleep with one persistent mouse firmly roosting above my left ear.

I was up at 7 a.m. for a breakfast of hot water, chapattis and sliced potatoes fried in ghee. The election party went into a flat spin on hearing that I intended returning to Jari alone, but I ignored their unconvincing arguments about the dangers of meeting leopards, bears (who presumably are all hibernating by now) and other unspecified menaces. The more I see of Indians the more astounded I am by their physical cowardice. Each of these four men said that they wouldn’t on
any account do such a trek alone, yet the average European woman (not to say man) would think nothing of it once she knew the trail and how best to circumvent its hazards.

It was still very cold when I set off at 8 a.m. and as expected the descent to the nullah was much more nerve-wracking than the ascent had been – though obviously much less exhausting. It took me an hour to reach the foot of that precipice, but then I relaxed and enjoyed every moment of the journey back – even shinning up the pine-trunk ‘stairs’, with the aid of my knife stuck hilt-deep in the rotten wood, and crossing the rope hand-bridge.

Today I came across a lot more wildlife than yesterday. I saw:

(1) The monal, a very rare type of pheasant, commonly found only in this valley. A cock flew close by and alighted beneath a tree some four yards away while I was sitting by the river. Its shining dark-green plumage really was quite breathtaking – though in build it didn’t look at all pheasant-like to me.

(2) A musk-deer – small as a goat – appeared briefly on the opposite bank of the nullah, scented me and vanished into a tangle of scrub. (My nostrils often caught the whiff of musk, but this was the only one I saw.)

(3) A goral – which is another deer, almost as big as a Jersey cow, with a thick, dark-brown coat. This lovely creature crossed the trail so near that I could almost have touched it, then sighted me and bounded away through the trees.

(4) A couple of flying foxes frisking on the opposite bank: they really are the most enchanting little creatures imaginable and I spent fifteen minutes zwatching their antics and observing what a highly developed sense of humour they reveal as they play together. With their silky chestnut coats gleaming in the sun they looked at times like two little flames darting through the undergrowth.

(5) A troop of graceful, slender monkeys with very beautiful silver bodies, black heads and tails and enormous liquid eyes; I would have identified them as lemurs if that species were not nocturnal. Perhaps some domestic crisis was keeping them up all day.

(6) An otter, tracked by following its wet tail-marks on flat slabs of
rock by the river. Eventually I came on it lunching off trout and I felt rather bad about interrupting the meal: naturally it took fright on seeing me and slid into a deep pool beneath an overhanging boulder.

(7) Last and greatest thrill of all – a real live panther, rippling sinuously up a bare, sheer precipice like a poem of motion. That indeed was beauty in action.

Needless to say all this nature-study wasn’t achieved without hours of sitting around, and I didn’t arrive at the Forest Rest House until 5.30, by which time it would have been quite dark but for the moon, whose brilliance here in India never ceases to astonish and delight me.

After Malana this hut, complete with table, chair and charpoy, is comparatively luxurious – yet I’m thinking enviously of that yule-log, for no heating is available and by now my fingers are almost too numb to hold the pen. I’m writing by the light of a wick floating in a bowl of malodorous mutton-fat and I’ve just dined off two flimsy chapattis and a tiny mug of dal. This fare didn’t begin to match my appetite, but one is reluctant to ask for more when it’s quite likely that one has already eaten the chowkidar’s supper.

I forgot to mention a little experiment which I conducted this morning on the outskirts of Malana. The Malanis prize cigarettes very highly, as their normal smoke is a hookah filled only with
woodembers
, so when I met two young men collecting firing in the
pine-forest
I stopped and offered them a cigarette each, holding out the open packet as one does. They hesitated for a moment and glanced at each other, before signing to me to put the packet on the ground. When I had done so first one and then the other bent down and gingerly removed a cigarette, taking great care not to touch the packet itself, which had been vilely polluted by contact with an ‘untouchable’ hand. Having pocketed their spoils they grinned a trifle sheepishly and then withdrew at speed from my unwholesome company.

Now I think a long and, I hope, mouse-free sleep is indicated.

(I can’t refrain from pointing out what a superbly appropriate name this is for a Tibetan camp site!)

Today has been relatively uneventful, though most enjoyable. We left Jari at 8.30 a.m. and had a bone-and screw-shaking freewheel down to the main road at Bhuntar. In fact I walked about five of the fourteen miles, both to spare Roz’s tyres and to give myself another opportunity to admire this valley.

Breakfast at Jari had consisted of one chapatti and a cup of ersatz tea, so I stopped at a Bhuntar eating-house to devour a four-egg omelette – my first sustaining meal for many days. The people of this locality are the poorest I’ve yet seen in India, though Kulu is famous for its fruit, particularly apples. One suspects that hitherto the orchards have been the monopoly of a few rich men and that the peasants have been too ignorant to make the best of their land. Now, however, the Government is subsidising and supervising the planting of small orchards, and is actively encouraging poultry-farming. One sees few goats or sheep, the pasturage being too poor. Cows are also scarce, and half a pound is their average daily yield.

On leaving Bhuntar we freewheeled smoothly down the main road for about eighteen miles – and then turned up another side valley to find this camp of 263 adults and 44 children. The little tent village was established here a year ago and will remain
in situ
for at least another three months, so again there is no real obstacle to it being a home for most of the workers’ children.

In each of these camps I met the parents of some of my favourites at Dharamsala. Usually, on hearing that I’ve come from there, they
introduce
themselves with anxious enquiries about their children, but occasionally I recognise them by some marked family resemblance or because they’ve been to visit the Nursery recently.

So far, in the course of my Tiblet-checking in all these road-camps, I’ve found nine ex-Dharamsala victims who spent periods of varying lengths at the Nursery before being removed because their parents were shocked by the deterioration in their health. Nine is a small number, yet it cheers me to know that there is a hard core of strongminded Tibetans among the roadworkers.

There was no time for diary-writing last night, as will soon become apparent.

We left Shat at 7 a.m. yesterday and had covered the twenty-four miles to Shoja by midday. This camp is at 8800 feet and over the last sixteen miles the rough track climbs steeply towards the foot of the Jalori Pass. For the first time since we left Dharamsala the sky was cloudy and the sides of this long, narrow valley were flecked with snow. There was more cultivation here than elsewhere in Kulu and the ingenious terracing reminded me of the Murree area of Pakistan. Clumps of pine trees looked black beside gleaming snow-drifts, and far above the track wooden farmhouses were adhering – somehow – to apparently sheer cliff-faces at altitudes of more than 10,000 feet. Beneath that dark grey sky this seemed a sombre, slightly awesome valley.

Shoja camp is a big settlement of 180 tents, the majority in good condition and each with its pile of firewood stacked beside it; luckily there is no shortage of fuel in this heavily forested region. These tents shelter 400 adults (approximately) and 161 children (precisely). I spent four hours examining the Tiblets and found that 118 appeared to be in perfect health – against all the odds, for they rarely get milk or meat and live mainly on rice and dal. The chief complaints of the other forty-three were dysentery, otitis media, gingivitis and what I suspect to be worms and TB. The camp has been established here for the past year and will be at least another year on the same site; a brand new road is being built over the difficult Jalori Pass and work hasn’t yet progressed very far. As I was being given these facts by the young English-speaking interpreter anger filled me; considering the numbers of wealthy relief agencies operating in Tibland it is outrageous that no worthwhile medical aid has been provided for such a camp. This neglect can only be explained by criminal stupidity on someone’s part.

I had intended spending the night with the Tibetans, as usual, and crossing the Jalori Pass today en route for the next camp at Luhri; but the interpreter and the camp-leader both advised me to cross the pass
that evening, as blizzards were expected in the area today. They said that Khanag, the first rest house on the other side, was only ten miles away, and generally implied that this was an easy trek which could be done in about four hours. At this stage my reasoning faculty apparently broke down and I unquestioningly accepted their advice, overlooking two elementary facts – (
a
) that a mountain-pass graded as ‘easy’ by Tibetans might be far from easy to a European and (
b
) that having already that day pushed Roz up to 8800 feet I wasn’t really in a fit state to continue to 10,700 feet. Yet I then felt quite fresh, after my four hours of sitting examining Tiblets, so at 4.30 p.m. we blithely set out for Khanag.

The first three miles were less steep than the previous sixteen and I cycled them slowly – but then the trouble started. On this bridle-path over the pass (which is officially open only from May to September) the gradients are utterly inhuman; furthermore, where the Tibetans have been widening the track by hacking away the earthy cliff on one side, we suddenly found ourselves slithering in ankle-deep mud of the stickiest consistency imaginable. After a few yards Roz’s wheels became immovably jammed and she had to be
dragged
instead of rolled along. Following two miles of this hell we left the mud behind, as the track rose even more steeply – and now we were ploughing our way through new snow a foot deep. Roz took a very dim view of it all; she thought we’d been through enough snow in Europe last winter without repeating the performance. And I agreed. Yet actually there isn’t any comparison as far as temperatures are concerned. At 7 p.m. yesterday, 9500 feet up in the Himalayas, I was literally dripping with sweat, though wearing only slacks and a shirt. Which just shows what last winter in Europe was like. (And which also shows the terrific exertion entailed in getting Roz up that damnable track.) By 5.45 p.m., when we were still stuck in the mud, it was dark – but I knew that an almost-f moon would soon rise from behind the mountains. For a moment, at that stage, I considered returning to Shoja for the night. However, a built-in defect always defeats common sense on these occasions, by never allowing me to turn back, and before long I was suffering for my rashness.

During the next two and a half hours I struggled against the soft snow and the preposterous gradient – which was much more severe than that encountered on the far higher Babusar Pass – and by nine o’clock I had begun to feel really scared. Apart from the unbeatable hell of our June trek through the Indus Gorge this was the most frightening experience of my life. Since last winter’s unfortunate
encounter
in Serbia, forest, snow and moonlight ring only one bell for me –
wolves
– and every time I heard a rustle I would have jumped a foot if I’d had the energy. I rapidly evolved the theory that Himalayan wolves are twice as big and ten times as fierce as the Yugoslav brand (which seems only logical) but happily there was no opportunity to prove this.

As we ascended, the gradient became even crueller and the snow lay even thicker. I realised now that there was no chance of crossing the pass that night and several times I was tempted to ease the situation by abandoning Roz and searching alone for some dwelling. But here sentiment overcame reason; if we were going to be lost for ever in a snow-drift then it seemed fitting to me that we should be lost together. At this stage I was totally exhausted and had to stop every five or six yards, leaning my arms on Roz’s handlebars and my head on my arms. Then I caught myself going to sleep in this position – which would have ended the story! – so for future pauses I just stood and gasped, while the sweat trickled down my face onto my bare arms. At every bend in the track I looked desperately for the outline of a rooftop in the moonlight – which was now very bright, as the clouds had scattered – and eventually I got to the point of fancying that big rocks were houses. Then, at last, a real rooftop did appear and instantly my resistance cracked. The house was only about forty yards away and dropping Roz on the track I crawled to the entrance, which was approached over a narrow plank ‘bridge’ laid from the edge of the track to the first floor balcony. (The ground floor of these farmhouses is always used for sheltering livestock and storing fodder and grain.) Fumbling my way along the balcony I came to an open door and though no light was visible a child could be heard crying within. Being afraid of scaring the family by appearing too suddenly I called out
‘
Nemuste
!’ But there was no response so I entered a pitch-dark room and then saw a faint flicker of firelight through a trap-door in the ceiling. Ascending a long, shaky ladder I put my head over the edge of the opening and rather timidly repeated – ‘
Nemuste
!’ As I’d expected, the unfortunate people were scared to bits – naturally enough, as even in summertime few foreigners travel through this region. Two young women screamed and jumped up from the central fireplace, which, as in Malana, was the room’s only ‘furniture’. They fled to a corner, each clutching an infant, as their husbands stood up and tried to look threatening, and an older man asked me in Hindi where I’d come from. I replied – ‘Kulu, with cycle,’ and climbed the last rungs of the ladder into the warm room. Then, feeling too done in for any further explanations, I simply lay down by the fire and impolitely went fast asleep – as good a sample of sign-language as you could get!